


Narwhals, Narwhals

by Deifire



Series: Eerie Advent Calendar Challenge [29]
Category: Eerie Indiana
Genre: Commercials from Hell, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Melanie Monroe's Racing Career, NASCAR, Possible Undead Sea Creatures, earworms, narwhals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 17:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12916755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/pseuds/Deifire
Summary: Narwhals, narwhals swimming in the ocean…Based on the actual, real-life broadcast of the 2015 Daytona 500.





	Narwhals, Narwhals

**Author's Note:**

> For those fortunate enough to have missed this particular phenomenon until now, [the full narwhals song](https://youtu.be/ykwqXuMPsoc) and [the commercial version](https://youtu.be/x8iXj2vkpJI) that aired approximately eleventy billion times one fateful day in February.
> 
> For the prompt "narwhal" in the 2017 Eerie Advent Challenge.

_Narwhals, narwhals swimming in the ocean…_

"And there it is again," says Simon, as if Marshall can't see or hear the little cartoon sea creatures for himself. Marshall makes another tally mark on the paper in front of him. It's not an accurate count—he's pretty sure he missed at least three showings while he was making the cheese dip—but it's helping him keep his sanity.

The commercial ends and the screen switches back to stock cars and he forces himself to at least try paying attention.

"I am so fucking bored," says Dash, who's not helping with this and who, despite Marshall's repeated suggestions that he find something else to do, has yet to move from where he's sprawled on the sofa with his head on Marshall's lap. "What the hell is the point of this, again?"

Which is only the same complaint he's had during every single sports broadcast they've watched for the past two decades or so. But this time Marshall can't help him. He has about half a page of notes where he's written things like _restrictor plate???_ and _no passing below yellow line_ and _Not IndyCar - no red tires_ , but that's from before he got distracted by the damned commercials. He's never getting that song out of his head.

Sara Sue comes to his rescue. "The point of this," she says, gesturing at the screen, "is to drive in a circle really fast for 500 miles, avoid wrecks, and cross the finish line first. The point of us watching this is to cheer for Melanie. Or, if she winds up out of the race, to cheer against anybody she's feuding with."

"Which is who, again?" Simon asks. They're cuddled up sharing the big recliner with the sort of touchy-feeliness Marshall's only ever witnessed in new couples and his parents.

"The 14 car, the 42, and um," She looks down at the paper in front of her, most of which is covered by a quick doodle of Melanie in victory lane and several more depicting other cars in spectacular wrecks. Simon has already convinced her not to sign any of them. "Oh yeah, the 20, because of that one time—"

_Narwhals, narwhals swimming in the ocean…_

Wait, how are they already back in commercial again? Marshall would blame Eerie weirdness, but he's checked social media, and the broadcast seems to be the same everywhere. He wants to support Melanie, but this is getting ridiculous. He makes yet another tally mark and starts to wonder if a certain advertising agency from hell is involved as Sara Sue's phone buzzes.

"What?" she says, answering it. "Bob Bob, I'm watching the race…Oh, you, too?...Yeah, I know the song's annoying…It's summoning _what?"_ She holds the phone slightly away from her ear. "Guys, is there a such creature as a land narwhal?" There's another loud squawk from the phone. "Excuse me, a _vampire_ land narwhal? Or is my little brother yanking my chain when he says there's one at his door?"

"No such creature," Marshall confirms. "That we know of."

"Yeah," says Simon. "But just in case it does exist, tell him not to let it in. If it's a land vampire of any sort, it shouldn't be able to cross a threshold uninvited."

"Good idea," Marshall says.

As Sara Sue's relaying this information, there's a knock at the door.

And in the silence that follows, another.

"That's probably just the pizzas," says Simon.

"I'm not getting it," says Dash.

**Author's Note:**

> The author regrets everything.


End file.
